


Hello Again / Friend of a Friend

by phonecallfromgod



Category: The Goldfinch (2019), The Goldfinch - Donna Tartt
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Andy Barbour Lives, Dramatic Irony, Established Relationship, Gen, Identity Porn, M/M, Mistaken Identity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:01:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26801077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phonecallfromgod/pseuds/phonecallfromgod
Summary: Andy Barbour knows all about his fiancé's friend Potter, and he’s pretty sure no one on the planet could be less similar to him than Boris’s partner in crime (and also handjobs) from his wild Las Vegas teenhood, so he's not exactly thrilled to find out that Boris has invited him to their engagement party.Thank god Andy will have some back up in the form of Theo Decker.
Relationships: Andy Barbour & Theodore Decker, Andy Barbour/Boris Pavlikovsky, Theodore Decker & Boris Pavlikovsky
Comments: 11
Kudos: 22





	Hello Again / Friend of a Friend

Andy’s father had always said that the root cause of any problem he’d faced as a child came down to a lack of confidence and a failure to assert himself. Which, as an adult, Andy Barbour is starting to realize that maybe his problem wasn’t asserting himself well enough, but being surrounded by those who didn’t really take no for an answer, no matter how many times he said it. 

“Mother,” Andy says into his phone for what must be the fourth time in half as many minutes, “I already told you that we wanted to keep this party small.” 

“Well yes of course, darling,” his mother says, like she always does. “But really it’s not increasing the guest list by very much, and if you’re not having a formal wedding your friends will be disappointed to not be able to wish you well.” 

“What friends? They’re not my friends, Mother, they’re your friends.” Andy’s own additions to the guest list had been a dozen or so colleagues and friends from college, about half of which hadn’t even been able to come. 

“They’re _family_ friends,” his mother says, as Andy waits halfheartedly at an intersection for a moment before just jaywalking. “Some of these people held you as a baby, I will not do them the ingratitude of leaving them off the guest list of your engagement party.”

“Alright,” Andy says. “Fine, do whatever you want, just promise me you will keep it under a hundred people.” He knows it’ll be one hundred and fifty, but if he says one hundred and fifty it will be two hundred. 

“It’s not a punishment to be endured, darling, these people are happy for you.” 

Andy sincerely doubts that most of his mother’s wealthy middle-aged friends were thrilled about his impending gay marriage to his very un-Fifth Avenue Approved Ukranian boyfriend, but he’s not about to argue the point. 

“I know,” Andy says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Look, I need to go, I’m going to pick up that painting for you and then I’ll swing it by later this week, alright? Goodbye mother.” 

“Alright, darling,” his mother says. “And do make sure they wrap it properly, you know how some places— ” 

Andy doesn’t hear exactly what other places do when wrapping their stupidly expensive old paintings because he’s pulling the phone away from his ear and hanging up. 

He sighs and then double checks the address of the antiques place in his phone. Something about it had seemed familiar, but Andy doesn’t recognize the outer facade at all as he takes the steps up to Hobart & Blackwell. The bell jingles behind him in a sound that Andy frankly finds more ominous than welcoming. There had been a lot of hanging around antiques shops and auctions since Andy’s father died. A whole horde of art and furniture he’d bought while ‘flying high’ or paintings his mother couldn’t look at anymore that needed to be shipped out, new things to be brought in to replace them. 

Andy’s mother might turn up her nose at his framed art prints and IKEA furniture, but he couldn’t help that he preferred to live with things that didn’t have the faint veneer of death smudged over them like a fine coating of dust. 

Still, this shop is bright and inviting, classical music playing over unseen speakers and a petite older woman in a bright red coat bent over the front counter in the middle of what looks to be a leisurely conversation. 

Andy pretends to look interestedly into a cabinet; “I’ll be right with you,” The bright male voice of the sales clerk calls, great projection without being too loud. An Upper Class Manhattan skill that Andy’s never been quite able to master. 

Andy makes a halfhearted sweep of the main room before tucking himself beside a grandfather clock ticking like a metronome and pulling his phone back out. 

_**Mr. Big Shot: 1 new message** _

**__** _nice vw_

_[1 Image Attached]_

_I need to take a hit out on someone_

_????? who ????_

_My mother_

_She’s inviting the entire Upper East Side to this party_

_:( poor mysh_

_She waits until ur gone to do these things_

_I’m an easy target_

_ill hry bck_

_Thurs?_

_unlss im dead_

_If you miss this you better be dead_

_Or i’ll be taking out a hit_

_I know people_

“Hello, thank you so much for your patience,” the clerk says, and Andy looks up from his phone, fidgeting with his glasses more on muscle memory than anything else. “Is there something I can help you with?” 

There’s something- _something_ about the clerk, he’s younger than Andy would have expected someone working in an antique store to be, in a suit that makes him feel underdressed even though he’s in a perfectly acceptable business casual combination of a sweater and khakis. But something rubs gratingly against Andy’s memory even as he tries to ignore it, like prodding a canker sore with his tongue. 

“Yes, I have a painting I’m meant to be picking up, it’s under the name—” 

“Andy,” the clerk says suddenly. “Dear god, Andy.” 

Andy’s just about to open his mouth to reply that it wasn’t even under his name when suddenly everything snaps into place, a subway car jerking forward and then back as it pulls into a station. 

“Theo?” Andy says incredulously, but Theo’s already halfway around the counter, arms open to embrace him. _What what why how Theo how how why Theo!?_ Andy’s brain provides very unhelpfully as—

“Oh my god Andy,” Theo says, letting go and clasping him by the shoulders with a little incredulous laugh, “You got so tall!” 

Andy scoffs, trying to force his heart out of his throat and back into his ribcage. “You’re one to talk Mr. Decker!” While he may have shot up a little above average in a late stage growth spurt, he was still a good few inches shorter than Theo. Theo shakes his head back and forth. “I saw Barbour in the slip but I never thought— Hobie had told me your mother was a client a long time ago, but— I can’t believe it.” 

“I—” Andy says, thoughts too clustered together. “That’s why the address looked familiar.” 

“Sorry?” 

“No I just,” Andy shakes his head. “The address for the shop, it looked familiar to me, this is where you used to come isn’t it? After school. With Pippa?” 

Theo’s face flashes unreadable for a half second before he schools it into something a little smoother and more palatable. “I can’t believe you remembered all that.” 

It feels like an accusation, so Andy feels around for a better question. “How long have you been back in the city? I should take you out to dinner and, I don’t know, welcome you home properly. My mother is going to absolutely have kittens when she hears about this.” 

“How’s your mom doing?” Theo says, a non-answer about how long he’s been back which makes Andy think it’s been longer than he might have expected given the radio silence. “How’s your father?” 

“Oh, actually,” Andy says, nails digging into his palms. “Daddy died, what, ten months ago? So it’s been...It’s been a hard year.”

“Christ Andy, I’m so sorry,” Theo says, mouth twisting in a way that makes him look indistinguishable from twelve years ago, sitting on Andy’s floor playing chess. 

“Maybe if, if you have some time you could swing by the apartment— Nothing too formal, I’ll make sure she knows you’re busy but, I think it would mean a lot to her knowing that you’re— ” Andy waves a vague hand over Theo’s whole body, “Wearing three-piece suits and dealing antiques. She really worried when we didn’t hear much from you.” 

“I did call,” Theo says quickly, a guilty confession. 

“I know,” Andy says. “I swore a blue streak at Kitsey for not telling me you had until days after.” 

“I’m sorry that I didn’t— ” Theo trails off, hand at the back of his neck. “I missed you though. And I always meant to look you up, I swear I did.” 

Andy’s heart squeezes tight again, pangs of childish adoration drowning out his compulsion to any anger towards Theo. “Listen, I know this is a bit abrupt, but my mother’s organizing this party and I would really love to have some backup there if you’re not busy Friday evening.” 

“Oh?” Theo says, eyebrows jumping. “Friday I could, maybe. One of those charity dinner parties?” 

“An engagement party.” 

“Platt’s?” 

“No, mine actually,” Andy says, feeling silly for not having led with that. 

“Andy!” Theo says, clasping him by the upper arms again. “That’s fantastic, congratulations.” 

“Thanks. Frankly I don’t know most of the people she’s inviting, but we’re not necessarily doing a very traditional wedding so it’s sort of a trade-off.” 

Theo grins at him, teeth biting into his lower lip. “Engaged,” he repeats. “My god. Congrats Andy, truly.” 

“Here,” Andy says, holding out his phone. “I promise I won’t hunt you down, but really, think about it? I could really use an ally other than Toddy and his girlfriend.” 

Theo blinks, eyes wide behind his glasses, “Toddy has a girlfriend?” 

“He’s just finished his sophomore year at Princeton. Isn’t that unbelievable?” 

“God, I feel old,” Theo says wryly, accepting the phone from Andy and dutifully typing his info into the new contact page. 

Andy gazes around the cramped little shop, kicking himself for never having thought to come by here after all the afternoons he’d spent covering for Theo, when he’d come back to the apartment smelling like furniture polish and sawdust. 

“Oh um, you just got a new text from, uh, ‘Mr. Big Shot’?” Theo says, holding back Andy’s phone. 

“That’s just my fiance, it’s fine, I’ll text him back later.” 

“Ah,” Theo says, a flush settling high on his cheeks. 

“Oh that’s right,” Andy says, tilting his head. “I suppose you would have missed my whole,” he makes a vague gesture, “‘Coming out.’ Though mother always says she’d known since I was about ten.” 

“Not that I have a problem with that,” Theo says very quickly. 

“Well of course not,” Andy says, and then because it seems polite to ask, “Are you seeing anyone? You’d of course be more than welcome to bring them.” 

“No,” Theo says. “No, I’m so busy with the shop— I handle basically all of the business end and then I’ve been travelling a lot recently, for work— so you know. Not a lot of time for that sort of thing.” 

Andy nods vaguely, feeling like he’s somehow said the wrong thing, but of all the people he’d have thought he’d need to be careful in disclosing that his fiance was a man, Theo Decker had never appeared on that list. Though perhaps that was mostly wishful thinking on his part. 

“Let me get that painting ready for you,” Theo says, disappearing for a moment into the depths of the shop and leaving Andy alone by the front counter. He opens the newly created contact on his phone, something deep in him finally settling now that he has this small lifeline. 

“You know it’s so funny,” Theo says, reappearing with the bulky rectangle of a painting carefully wrapped in brown archival paper, “Just, what was it now, six months ago, I bumped into another long lost friend. My dad would say there was, I don’t know, a planet in retrograde or some such. ‘ _Lost things will return to you in due time’_ something like that.” 

“Maybe that’s why Kitsey shacked up with Tom Cable,” Andy says more to himself than anything, but Theo’s hands go skittering as he loses grip on a roll of tape. 

“Kitsey’s seeing _who_!?” Theo says incredulously. 

“I know, I’m not thrilled about it either,” Andy says. “See this is why you need to come to this party, I have a lot of things to catch you up on Theo.” 

“Apparently,” Theo says, and hands Andy the carefully wrapped package. “There’s a lot I’ve missed. 

Andy met Boris Pavlikovsky in a mostly empty airport bar fresh off six months interning in Kyoto as part of the MISTI MIT-Japan program, his Japanese near fluent and his future prospects absolutely depressing. Which is why Andy was letting himself have, as his father would say, a minor nip, despite it only being eleven in the morning, JST.

Andy doesn’t really remember Boris coming over as much as he just remembers him being there very suddenly, all Slavic swagger, impossible to place accent, the almost too-sharp attractiveness of him. Mostly he just remembers Boris asking him if he wanted to go back to his hotel, and even though Andy was supposed to get on a flight in a few hours, and even though Andy was not the type to hook up with mysterious strangers with mysterious accents, he’d said yes. 

“Let me call my driver,” Boris had said, a hand on the small of his back after Andy had rescheduled himself to a later flight. 

“You have a driver?” Andy had asked stupidly, trying not to sound impressed because he was mostly just surprised. 

“Ahh, I’m kind of a big shot,” Boris said, holding the door open for Andy like a gentleman, and immediately proving himself not to be one the moment it was closed. 

Hands and mouths and a shameful disregard for Japanese seatbelt laws later, Andy found himself in Boris’s hotel suite, and very quickly in his lap, holding Boris’s wrists above his head and flat against the headboard. “Well isn’t this a nice surprise,” Boris crooned. 

“Alright, Mr. Big Shot,” Andy said. “Impress me.” 

In hindsight it was probably simultaneously the best and worst decision Andy had ever made in his life. Followed almost immediately by a decision so heart-stoppingly stupid Andy still couldn’t believe years later that he’d said yes. 

Sometimes he’d tell himself it was something about the curve of Boris’s back as he’d bent over to pick his clothes up off the floor. The kind of expensive shirts and jackets which looked good when they were a little crumpled and lived in, maybe even better. An elusive coolness that had always been out of reach for someone like Andy, who had made it up with a deliberate sort of effort. Sharp ironed collars peeking out of impossibly soft manicured sweaters, carefully tailored pants, argyle socks. He’d done the geek chic t-shirts and blazers thing for a few years in undergrad, but that kind of thing had an expiration date, so he’d put his head down and done the work to file it down to an attractive academic in the city calling card. 

“So Andy,” Boris had said, his mouth slightly awkward around the shape of it _Ahn-deeeee_ , “You’re a translator?” 

“Essentially,” Andy said, still in bed. He’d landed an academic translation contract for the next ten months, covering for someone on maternity leave. Despite being both academic and linked to publishing, however, his parents were less than enthusiastic about the prospect, a constant reminder that their support was always tied to their approval of his life choices. He’d been trying to build up some savings if push really came to shove, but there was only so much he’d been able to tuck away while in school. His parents much preferred to just pay for things directly rather than let him deal with his own finances. 

Boris cocked his head to the side. “I might have a job for you.” 

Andy missed his rescheduled flight and flew back to New York three days later with twenty thousand dollars in cash tucked into his carry-on (with another fifty thousand wired to a brand new account). 

He’d honestly never expected to see Boris ever again, but people like that stuck to you in a way that Andy should have found terrifying, but could never quite bring himself to be. Boris was a dangerous person to know, a dangerous person period. But that was easy to forget when Boris was peppering him with endearments in half a dozen languages as he cooked him breakfast, or panting open-mouthed into Andy’s shoulder as they fucked in the shower. Or, much later, very shyly asking if he could meet Andy’s parents. 

“You know,” Andy said, two years in and the third time Boris had come back to his (their) apartment with a slash somewhere in his body deep enough to require stitches, “If we got married I wouldn’t be able to testify against you in court.” He pulled the stitches tight (the only useful thing he learned at sailing camp) giving a mournful glance to the perfectly nice throw blanket that Boris had ruined by bleeding all over it.

“I don’t think the other bastard is going to sue me, _myszko_ ,” Boris said. 

“Well of course not, Danish mobsters don’t make very good plaintiffs,” Andy said. “But I’m just thinking. Proactively.” 

“Hmmm,” Boris said, grinning up at him in a stupidly endearing hazy painkiller induced way, “Very romantic.” 

“You know me,” Andy said, and pulled the last stitch tight, Boris hissing in pain. “All romance.” 

But he’d woken up the next morning with a ring he’d never seen before slipped onto his right ring finger (it was the thought that counted he supposed), and Boris’s arm draped over his hip, and it seemed like the kind of crazy stupid horrible decision that people like Andy were never supposed to even _have_ the chance to make. 

But here he was, and despite all odds he found himself feeling happier than he could ever remember being in his stiflingly safe Fifth Avenue life. So he put the ring on his left hand, pulled Boris’s arm tighter around him, and went back to sleep. 

The thing with being in love with — attempting to make a life with — someone like Boris, was that you very quickly had to get used to a certain level of uncertainty. They had an arrangement about it; Boris didn’t lie to him, and Andy didn’t ask too many questions. The less Andy knew the safer for both of them, but that bled over into seemingly innocuous details as well. 

Andy never got Boris from the airport, that was Gyuri’s job, so he never knew what time Boris’s flights came in. A fact that meant the whole day was cloaked in jumpy anxious anticipation, Andy’s heart jumping and then falling any time his phone vibrated. His mother’s inquiries about canapes and table linens started to feel more cruel than annoying as he got his hopes up over and over again, despite trying to keep his expectations down. 

As it is, Boris comes banging back into the apartment as Andy is doing the dishes, having put off making dinner until almost nine, convinced that the moment he made dinner for one would be the moment that Boris walked through the door. As it is, Andy’s standing at the sink when Boris appears with a series of thuds; door open, door closed, bag dropped on floor, Boris dropped against the door. 

“Hello,” Andy says, turning the faucet off and sticking the bowl he was washing into the drying rack. His mother had been slightly scandalized one of the few times she’d been over that he didn’t have a dishwasher, but Andy had found that he mostly didn’t mind washing things by hand.

“Hrhmm,” Boris says, and then pulls himself up off the door. “You just eat?” 

“Yes, but there’s leftovers I could heat you up,” Andy says, as Boris lazily comes over, plastering himself against Andy’s back. He reaches around blindly for the back of Boris’s head, petting down his hair gently. 

“Bad day?” 

“Just long,” Boris says, “better now.” 

“I bet you say that to all your European boyfriends,” Andy says. 

“No they are all very very mad at me,” Boris says, one hand ghosting back and forth against Andy’s hip, “Very jealous because they know I like you best. That you’re going to make an honest man out of me.” 

“That was never part of the arrangement,” Andy says, voice cracking a little, embarrassingly, as Boris starts palming him against what is very much _not_ his hip, chin hooking over Andy’s shoulder. “Alright, alright, bedroom, now.” 

“So aggressive Andrey,” Boris says, like his hands aren’t halfway down the front of Andy’s khakis. 

That was the other half of the reason Andy had put off making dinner. Boris had a tendency to seduce him away from whatever he was doing the moment he got home, and it only took having to put out one fire while naked to put Andy off the whole experience.

Andy is still trying to enjoy his afterglow when Boris climbs back into bed fresh from a shower and immediately curls himself around Andy as if he’s not soaking wet. 

“We have towels, you know. Very nice ones my mother bought,” Andy admonishes, but he doesn’t move. 

They lie like that for a while, legs intertwined like roots before Boris says very casually, “Speaking of your mother, I have some names for the guest list, new names, that I need to send to her.” 

“Alright,” Andy says, like he doesn’t know what that means. Like he doesn’t know what the subtext of the last few jobs have been. Boris is never going to be, well, white collar, in his line of work, but Andy’s family has connections and maybe it’s naive of him, but he’d rest better knowing what Boris is doing is a bit more on the powder blue end. 

But there’s a difference between suspecting some of his father’s good Old Boys might be dipping into less savoury things and actually knowing who they are. Having names is a good step forward at least. 

“Oh, also, Potter said he’d come,” Boris says with forced casualness and Andy realizes suddenly he’s fallen for a bait and switch like a tourist getting conned in Atlantic City. 

“Really?” Andy says very evenly, not giving up the ghost.

“Mhmm, texted him in the car.” 

“Did you tell him it was an engagement party?” 

“Ehhh,” Boris says flopping over onto his back. “Not really. But it will be fine. He’s very,” he makes a baffling hand gesture Andy doesn’t follow at all, before settling on, “Dapper. Nice dresser. It will be fine.” 

“Well as long as he’s not _unkempt_ ,” Andy says, getting out of bed and rummaging around in his drawer for pyjama pants. 

“You will like him” Boris says insistently. “He’s New York boy, you are very similar.” 

Andy rolls his eyes where Boris can’t see him. He’s pretty sure no one on the planet could be less similar to him than Boris’s best friend from his wild Las Vegas teenhood. Who regularly did tabs of acid in the desert and shoplifted dinner to get by as Boris’s partner in crime (and also handjobs) until Potter’s dad ended up dead and Potter skipped town. 

“Well it's very nice of him to come either way,” Andy says diplomatically, pulling on a pair of pyjama pants, because it’s a bit easier to pretend to be a fully mature adult when he’s not naked. 

“You just wait,” Boris says, settling back into the pillows. “You just wait until you meet him Andrey.” 

“Speaking of meeting people,” Andy says, because if there’s one thing growing up in his household taught him how to do well, it was the careful verbal dance from one subject to another. “The oddest thing happened earlier this week.” 

“Mhmm?” 

“I bumped into my friend Theo Decker who I haven’t seen in god, twelve years?” 

“Which one is he again?” Boris asks.

“The one who stayed with us after his mother died. Who moved to Texas.” 

“Ahhh yes,” Boris says. 

“I invited him too,” Andy says, setting his glasses on the side table and resettling himself like a closed bracket against Boris’s side. Boris presses his face to Andy’s temple, a rough prickle of stubble against Andy’s forehead. 

“Well maybe he and I will become great friends.” 

“I doubt it.” 

“Ouch!” 

“No, because,” Andy flops a hand uselessly, “I just don’t think he’s your kind of person. He’s very internal.”

“I thought you were going to say because you were in love with him.” 

“Boris, do _not_ bring that up to him, I’m not kidding.” Andy’s childhood crush on Theo Decker had always been something he’d considered both deeply embarrassing and a little bit unfortunate. There wasn’t much that was romantic about being thirteen and longing after someone too wrapped up in their own burial shroud of trauma to pay you much attention. Not that Andy blamed Theo for any of that, of course.

“Alright, alright, relax, no need to scream. I just thought maybe,” Boris says, drawing an abstract pattern on Andy’s back that feels like it might be some sort of lopsided heart, “maybe you want me to play jealous boyfriend. Really rub in his face that he should have made a move when he could have.” 

“I don’t think that will be very necessary.” 

“Well,” the pattern shifts, nimble fingers across the wide plane of Andy’s back “maybe we set him up with Potter then.” 

“Oh god,” Andy laughs, “I’m fairly certain Theo is either very straight or deeply repressed,” and then after a horrified pause, “That’s an awful thing to say. I shouldn’t have said that.” 

“Don’t worry _myszko_ ,” Boris says, “Your secrets are safe with me. Too bad though, I think Potter could use a good fuck. So tense.” 

“Well maybe if he likes a challenge,” Andy replies. 

“Who doesn’t?” Boris says in an absolutely filthy tone of voice that’s making Andy really question the practicality of having gotten even just partially clothed again. Live and learn, he supposes. 

After Andy and Boris got engaged there was a period of about four months where Andy was not on speaking terms with his parents. Not in any sort of formal arrangement of course, how gauche, but his parents had voiced their disapproval and entreated him to ‘make smart choices’ about ‘how he would proceed in this matter.’ 

Andy had gone ahead and hired a lawyer to help him with all the red tape cutting and paperwork that came along with trying to get married to someone who was neither a US citizen, nor had much of a legal paper trail at all. Andy registered everything in Boris’s mother’s maiden name and stopped going to Sunday dinners with his parents.Not that he’d been invited, but it was the principle of the thing. 

If Andy’s parents had clued in to any actual unsavoury dealings regarding Boris that would have been one thing. Or if they’d simply not liked him and wanted him to set his sights elsewhere, the way they’d greatly disliked Kitsey’s high school boyfriend Lawrence Prescott, that would be another. But Boris was good with people and had charmed Andy’s parents with seeming effortlessness. He knew the right things to say about art, literature, finances, and didn’t bring up politics. His personality was never the problem. 

Rather, Andy’s parents hadn’t wanted him to get married because they saw Boris as an exotic little amusement on par with a gap trip in Europe or a brief stint with Zen Buddhism. Something that Andy would outgrow with time and reference as a charming little anecdote at dinner parties with the socially acceptable homosexual son of a family friend as a flat, safe replacement. 

But Andy didn’t want a flat safe acceptable life anymore. No, he had no inclination to throw himself into Boris’s world either, but being aware of it, having brushed right up against it, had knocked off the blinders Andy didn’t even know he was wearing. Life was more than Fifth Avenue apartments and afternoon lunches and thank you cards to people you hated. In a single day of knowing Boris, Andy had realized that the concrete rules and expectations of his life were nothing but a maze of flimsy conceits. It was frankly hard to take any of it seriously when the person he slept with— slept beside — had real life and death concerns to worry about. 

But then Daddy had gotten sick again and Kitsey had dropped out of Sarah Lawrence and taken up with Tom Cable in one fell swoop, and suddenly Andy’s engagement was knocked down the list of family concerns. (At least that’s how Kitsey had framed it when she’d appeared in his apartment one afternoon, Boris having let her in, the two of them having always gotten along fantastically much to Andy’s dismay.) 

And then Andy spent an hour and a half in the cold water of the Northeast Harbor thinking he was going to die like some horrible ironic plot twist. The universe killing his father and threatening to do the same to him as payback for daring to think that high society life had no life and death dangers to dole out for him. He was in hospital for three days after, Boris asleep in a waiting room chair for what felt like most of it, and well, after that it would be stupid for anyone in their family to care about something so inconsequential as his impending nuptials. Andy feels fairly certain at that point he could have told his mother exactly what Boris’s business trips to Europe entailed and she’d still invite him for lunch at Aquavit. 

All this to say that sometimes, as much as they’d all had to pull together as a family in the face of such a horrific accident, and even as much as Andy was glad that no one was making pointed comments about his fiance anymore (other than Platt, but Andy was good at ignoring him), mornings like this did make him guiltily long for the icy but quiet months of silence between him and his mother. 

“Darling,” she says. 

“Mother,” Andy says, again. The wrapped painting from Hobart & Blackwell abandoned at his feet for more pressing issues. “The party is _tonight_.” 

“I’m well aware of that, Andy.” 

Andy pinches the bridge of his nose. “Well, I’m just suggesting that, _perhaps_ now is not the time to be changing things.” 

“I don’t want you to regret in years to come that you didn’t do anything to commemorate your marriage.” He should have brought Boris with him, but it seemed cruel to force him out of bed before noon when he was running on lord knows what timezone. Still, it would have been worth it for the back-up. Boris has always had a way of dealing with Andy’s mother that he both envies and exploits, in roughly equal measure. 

“We’re already planning to do wedding pictures,” Andy tries instead, “There is no value to either of us to have a photographer wandering around our engagement party.” Not to mention that having photographic evidence of Boris in the same room as some of the Barbours’ less savoury acquaintances is, broadly speaking, the worst fucking idea ever. 

“Here,” Andy says, thrusting the painting at her, an inelegant parry. “You haven’t even opened this yet.” 

She scoffs, a small contained thing that’s more of a cough than anything else, but she accepts the painting and begins to gently liberate it from its layers of careful wrapping, Andy waiting another beat before adding; “You’ll never guess who wrapped that for you.” 

“Hmmm?” 

“Theodore Decker,” Andy says. 

“Oh!” Andy’s mother says, hands flying up to her throat and then touching the wrapping very gently, Theo by proxy. A perfect bait and switch, Boris would be so proud. 

“He’s dealing antiques down in the Village,” Andy says. 

“How marvelous, absolutely wonderful,” she agrees. “He used to absolutely worship my paintings, do you remember darling?” 

Andy nods, even though he doesn’t really. “He said he’d stop by tonight. Which, mother, is part of the reason I don’t want flashing cameras in people’s faces. It’s unwelcoming.” 

“They’re very discrete dear,” she says, patting him on the knee but not pushing it any further. Which, with his mother could be a good sign or a very bad one, but he follows her into the foyer without complaint.

Andy didn’t know there were so many wrong ways to hang a painting, but he seemed to have discovered all of them in the half hour or so that it took him to get her new painting onto the wall. Some pastoral picturesque thing that was not Andy’s taste at all, but was at least more comforting than the image of roiling seas she’d had up before. 

“There,” his mother says when it’s finally to her liking. “Now doesn’t that just feel. So much lighter.” 

Andy takes a step back and she loops an arm through his, rubbing at his back comfortingly, and even though Andy doesn’t know anything about art, he finds he doesn’t half mind it now that it’s in place. Something about it’s sturdy brightness and Theo association that he can’t help but find calming. 

“Yes,” Andy agrees, “I think that’s much better.” 

He’s just stepping out of the elevator and into the lobby when he gets the call from Theo. 

“Speak of the devil,” Andy says in lieu of a proper greeting. “I was just taking that painting to my mother, she’s thrilled about seeing you.” 

Theo laughs uncomfortably across the line. “Oh, actually, that’s what I’m calling about. Look I’m so sorry but something’s come up and I won’t be able to swing by tonight.” 

“Oh,” Andy says, trying to keep as much disappointment out of his voice as possible. 

“I’m really sorry Andy,” Theo says again. “But look, maybe we could do something next week? Lunch? My treat.” 

_Calm down_ , Andy thinks to himself, _he’s not disappearing on you again, it’s just one night_. “Of course,” he says finally. “We’ll reschedule.” 

“But please pass on my best wishes to your mom,” Theo says, voice slightly hushed. “I’ll make it up to her too.” 

“Mhmm,” Andy says, a habit he’d picked up from Boris that his father had hated up until his dying day. _If you want people to take you seriously you can’t just hum at them_ , _Andy, it shows a lack of confidence_. 

The thought of getting on the subway is too much right now, with his throat drawn tight, claustrophobic, so Andy walks home, a nasty blister already forming on the back of his heel, but it’s a good distraction at least. 

Boris is sitting on the couch, two different laptops open, his burner phone to his ear and a Swedish crime show on low volume in the background when Andy gets back to the apartment. Boris takes one look at him and immediately wraps up with whoever he’s on the phone with. Besides Myriam and Gyuri, who he has to interact with on the basis of necessity, Andy doesn’t know anyone Boris works with. Which is all by design. Though he did have one weird run-in with a sharp faced guy (Dima? Dmitri? Something like that) who asked if he was Boris’s brother-in-law way back when they first started seeing each other. (“Why did he think you were married?” “Eh, sometimes easier to tell people I have a pretty blonde wife for when I need to drop things. Less resentment for good husbands.”) 

“What’s wrong, hmm?” Boris says, moving over so Andy can sprawl along the couch, head ending up in Boris’s lap. 

“Theo’s not coming tonight, he had— I don’t know he didn’t say. Something came up.” 

“Poor _myszko_ ,” Boris says sympathetically, scrubbing his fingers into Andy’s hair. 

“I know it’s not that important,” Andy says, pressing his face into the side of Boris’s thigh, glasses going askew. 

“It’s important,” Boris reaches down and pulls Andy’s glasses off, sticking them on top of his own head. “I know, when someone comes back into your life you want to hold on.” 

Andy squints up at him, and feels bad for thinking all that shit about Potter yesterday. Even if he had reasons to be wary, this was clearly someone special to Boris, he could at least be supportive of that.“Well I’m glad your friend is going to be there at least, maybe we can set him up with Kitsey instead or something.” 

“Maybe,” Boris says, “She likes bad boys. Potter is doing counterfeiting now, did I tell you? Step up from drug dealing even.” 

“Wow,” Andy says, resolve to be nicer already cracking. 

If the universe is testing him he thinks he might be failing. 

Andy is very politely trying to follow a story Toddy is telling him about water polo when Theo Decker walks into the upscale restaurant his mother has rented out for this party, and for a moment he thinks he might have started hallucinating out of sheer boredom. 

But then Toddy is following his eyeline, grin breaking out over his face that makes him look about seven years old again, “Holy crap, is that Theo!?” 

In spite of, or maybe because of, Toddy being so young when Theo had lived with them, he’d taken on a sort of mythical quality in Toddy’s mind, and he brought him up frequently from almost the moment Theo had gotten into that cab with his father and driven off. While it would have been easy to resent the constant reminder, Andy had never really minded it. Toddy could get away with saying what no one else in their family could by virtue of him being the youngest, and it was comforting for someone to say they missed Theo, even if that couldn’t be Andy. 

Theo’s looking down at his phone and misses Andy trying to wave him over, so he pats Toddy on the shoulder, “here, I’ll be right back.” 

He’s only three feet away when Theo finally looks up, shoulders curled awkwardly as he lingers in the entryway. 

“Theo, hi,” Andy says, only managing to keep about half of the joy-relief out of his voice. 

“Andy,” Theo says, in a very odd tone of voice, his eyebrows knitting together. “I— um hi.” 

“I’m so glad you could make it,” Andy says.

“Er,” Theo says, “I can’t actually stay too long though— I’m just sort of popping in.”

“That’s fine, that’s fine,” Andy waves a hand, he’ll take it. “Do you want something to drink?” 

“Um, sure alright,” Theo says, still seeming a bit dazed. 

“Do you want to sit?” Andy offers cautiously. 

“No, no, that’s— I’m fine Andy. It’s just— wow, you know, you’re getting married.” 

Andy signals for one of the servers walking around with flutes of champagne and gets one for himself and Theo. 

“Hey,” Theo says, “To love and friendship, and uh, coincidences.” 

“Cheers,” Andy agrees, and resists the urge to down all of his champagne. Potter hasn’t arrived yet and Andy would be lying if he said he wasn’t a little bit stressed about it, even though Boris had sworn up and down he wouldn’t stick out in a sea of his mother's friends (“Total gentleman Andrey, stop worrying”). 

“Where’s the fiance?” Theo says, a little strained in a way that Andy is politely ignoring. Theo’s trying at least, and that’s all Andy can really ask for. 

“Probably socializing,” Andy says, “he’s better at that kind of thing that I am.” 

“Me too,” Theo says, a confession, “If it’s a customer I’m fine but the minute I have to— I don’t even know, make small talk? I’m toast.” 

Theo sips his champagne and for a half-second Andy is overwhelmed with the false memory of them shoulder to shoulder at some awkward high school dance. He used to do that a lot, pretending what he’d be doing if Theo were there, half terrified of the thought that maybe Theo would have vanished on him anyways, even if his dad hadn’t shown up and dragged him across the country. 

“I apologize in advance that Toddy will probably want to get all your contact info and want to take you out for many, many lunch dates with Weather.” 

“Weather?” 

“Oh, that’s his girlfriend. She’s very nice, the name is not her fault, her parents are a bit, 

you know, artsy Brooklyn types.” 

“Alright, I’ll prepare myself.” 

It feels like it shouldn’t be this easy, him and Theo falling back into easy step,

three-legged-race, _now you, now me_. But Andy’s trying to stop catastrophizing and just let him enjoy himself. 

Theo takes another drink. “I never thought Toddy liked me much, honestly.” 

“Are you kidding? Me and Platt were stuck jostling for second and third place for favourite older brother.” 

“Oh,” Theo says. “Alright then.” 

“Is this news to you?” Andy asks.

“He was always asking those questions, you know about when I was leaving?” 

“He was seven, kids that young don’t have a filter. He didn’t mean it in a bad way, he was just curious I suppose.” 

Theo considers this for a long moment, adjusting the knot on his tie before finally saying, “Well, I still think you should be his favourite brother.” 

“That’s very nice of you to say,” Andy says. “It will never happen, but very nice.” 

“You can be my favourite then,” Theo says very sweetly, and Andy’s heart goes cartwheeling into his stomach. 

“We should, um,” Andy starts, “if you can’t stay too long, we should make sure you say hi to my mother.” 

“I could probably stay for a little bit,” Theo says, more to himself than Andy, at least that’s what it seems like, pulling his phone back out as Andy turns to try and spot his mother. He’s still looking for her when Boris emerges from the edge of the crowd, beaming like he’s never been so happy. Schmoozing must have gone well then. Or maybe he’s just happy on Andy’s behalf that Theo showed after this afternoon. 

“You’re here!” Boris says, arms outstretched and before Andy can warn him that’s maybe a bad idea he’s embracing Theo who looks over Boris’s shoulder at Andy, eyes wide. 

_‘Sorry,’_ Andy mouths at Theo, and then puts a hand on Boris’s back to draw him backwards, Boris stepping back and curling an arm around Andy’s waist. 

“I will not say ‘I told you so,’ but,” Boris says to Andy, finishing the sentence off with a dramatic shrug; _but I told you so_. 

“Told me so about what?” Andy asks, totally lost. 

“I—” Theo says, eyes flickering very quickly between Andy and Boris. 

“Now I know this is a bit of a shock for you, but I thought if I said it was an engagement party you would weasel out of coming, but now you can see what a nice charming young man my Andrey is,” Boris says, an affectionate hand on Andy’s chest, picture of pre-marital bliss, “And you can understand better why I’m getting married.”

“I’m sorry, what is happening?” Andy says, feeling like he’s trapped in a strange dream conversation with rules he doesn’t understand.

“Perhaps this was a bad idea,” Boris says, and signals for more champagne, even though Theo’s glass is half full and neglected in his hand. 

“I—” Theo tries again.

“C’mon, drink up Potter, it’s free,” Boris says, getting another glass into Theo’s free hand. Andy hears a flute shatter and it takes him a second to realize that his glass is no longer in his hand. 

The thing about almost dying of hypothermia is that, after the initial shock of being dumped into the ocean and being a kind of cold that you didn’t even know you could get, your brain just stops being able to process what's happening. This is part of the danger mind you, falling unconscious in the ocean is the easiest way to drown, but it’s a relief. You can’t think straight, can’t think much of anything, and it gets a lot scarier once you’re out of the water, when you start to realize what’s happening. 

“Andrey,” Boris says, pulling him a half step back away from the broken glass between them and Theo, “Careful.” 

“You moved to Texas,” Andy says, because it’s the first solid thing his mind can grab onto in the roiling sea of what-the-absolute-fuckery that he’s been thrown into. “I remember. We talked about the death penalty, the planetarium. You moved to _Texas_.” 

“Pippa moved to Texas,” Theo says, two flutes of champagne uselessly in his hands. “Pippa moved to Texas, not me.” 

“I don’t understand,” Boris says, turning to Andy. “Why are we talking about Texas?” 

“You’re marrying _Boris_ ,” Theo says, suddenly seeming to snap back into himself. “ _Boris_. Andy what the _fuck_ — How do you even— Where did you— How!?” 

“Do you really want the details Theo? Right now, that’s what you want?” 

“Wait,” Boris says,wagging a finger between Andy and Theo, “Oh this is—” he says something excitedly in Russian, grabbing Theo by the arm, his other still draped around Andy. 

“No it is _not_ fate” Theo hisses. 

“My best friend, long lost. Andrey’s best friend, long lost. And they are both _you_ Potter? That is destiny! That is— is—” he makes a series of wild hand gestures, the way he does when his melange of languages fail him. 

That is, of course, when his mother decides to materialize, gracefully sidestepping the broken glass. “Theo, oh look at you!” 

“Mrs. Barbour,” Theo says, not very subtly glancing down at his two flutes, Boris taking one from him and then giving it to Andy. 

“Oh dear,” Mrs Barbour says, noticing the broken glass. 

“That was all my fault,” Boris says, the arm around Andy’s waist feeling more and more like a silent command. _Stay calm, everything’s okay, everything is okay._

“Well I’m sure we can get someone to handle that,” Mrs. Barbour says, smoothly linking her arm through Theo’s and pulling him off with her, him shooting one betrayed look over his shoulder as he goes. Boris finally lets Andy go and digs out a crumpled napkin to get most of the large pieces off the floor before going to find someone with a broom. Boris, to his credit, is always good in a crisis. 

“ _Myszko_ , you’re white as a sheet. Let's get you a stronger drink, okay?” 

Andy’s expecting a tasteful lowball glass of gin, but he doesn’t turn him down when Boris foists two different shots onto him instead, downing them so quickly he barely registers what they are. 

“How are we feeling, hmm?” Boris says, “Big emotions with a surprise like this.” Something about the gentleness of his voice, the fact that Boris seems entirely nonplussed by this revelation (the downside to being with someone who courted disaster occupationally, Andy supposes), but didn’t seem judgmental of the fact that Andy had not, makes Andy’s throat constrict. A reminder that their marriage might have goals other than the traditional mutual love and affection, but that didn’t mean those things weren’t a part of the equation.

“How did we not put this together?” Andy says, when he trusts his voice, “You never mentioned that Potter’s name was Theo.” Though to be entirely fair, Andy hadn’t realized that had been a nickname until a few minutes ago. 

“Lots of people named Theo,” Boris says, _Thay-o_ , awkward in his mouth, hand drifting to the back of Andy’s neck, fingers right above his collar, “Never mentioned your friend’s mother died in museum explosion. That would have done it.” 

“Christ,” Andy says, pushing his hands up under his glasses. 

“That one’s on me too, but not so nice to discuss how our parents die,” Boris says, patting Andy twice on the back. His gaze drifts across the party and Andy follows his eyeline to where Toddy is enthusiastically introducing his girlfriend to Theo, his mother still with one arm slipped through his. 

He’s still looking over at them when Kitsey appears suddenly at his other side.

“Is that Theo Decker!?” she says, slapping him with surprising strength in the arm, “Andy-Pandy you didn’t tell me he was coming!” 

“It’s kind of a new development,” Andy says. 

“He’s so _handsome_ ,” Kitsey says thoughtfully. 

“Isn’t he just,” Boris says proudly. “Those suits.” 

“You have a boyfriend,” Andy says to Kitsey, ignoring Boris.

“Never know when you might need a spare.” 

“Don’t talk about my friend like that, he’s not a tire,” Andy snaps, the instinct for camaraderie with Theo overriding the, well, _everything_ about this evening. 

“Is he always this much fun at parties?” Kitsey says to Boris. 

“Oh, much more even,” Boris says, and then when Andy glares at him, “Don’t give me that Andrey, you are better at parties where you don’t have to schmooze, not a bad thing, just a fact.” 

“Speaking of schmoozing,” Kitsey says, “This Havistock guy will not stop bothering me to talk to you, can I foist him on you real quick before he circles back to me for a third time?” 

“What did he want to talk about?” Boris asked with measured nonchalance. 

“I guess he does some work in Europe? Something with antiques, and you do all that estate stuff. He’s always bothering Mommy about coming around the apartment.” 

“Hmm,” Boris says, “Introduce me?” 

“Always for my favourite brother-in-law-to-be,” Kitsey says, wrapping a hand around Boris’s arm in a way that is hauntingly similar to how his mother had done to Theo. 

“Just bring him back in one piece,” Andy says, knowing he doesn’t have a say in the matter. 

“No promises sweetheart,” Boris says, the heels of his shoes clicking hard against the floor as he goes. 

Andy watches them go and debates making a break for it to get some fresh air while no one’s looking, which is his fatal mistake, because in the moment he takes to debate it, Theo is already coming back over, looking a little overwhelmed but mostly pleased. He and Andy’s mother always had a special connection that used to drive Andy into small fits of quiet icy jealousy as a child. Though, in hindsight, it was not entirely clear who he was more jealous of. 

“Christ,” Theo says, landing beside Andy at the far side of the bar. 

“That much fun?” 

“No,” Theo says, rubbing his eyes behind his glasses in a boyish move that annoys Andy as much as it endears him. “Well, I mean. It was fine, it was— a lot of talk about antiques. Your mother wants me to hire Boris which was. She says he’s doing estate management?” 

“Hmmm,” Andy says noncommittally. 

“Toddy’s so grown up now. And his girlfriend seems, she seems really nice.” 

“Yes, he’s handling being the last hope of our family very impressively,” Andy says, and then catching Theo’s look, “I’m not bitter, it's just the truth. Almost dying did wonders for Platt’s personality but he’s still a bit of a psychopath deep down. The best hope for him is he might be someone’s second husband one day. Kitsey seems committed to whatever she’s doing with Tom Cable, but she’s smart enough not to marry him.” 

“Unlike you, right?” Theo says, and it’s a nasty thing to say, but Andy knows he doesn’t mean it unkindly. “They don’t talk about you like that. They’re excited about your wedding.” 

Andy huffs a little incredulous laugh, “Just because it’s out of fashion to open hate gay people doesn’t mean they didn’t try and talk me out of the engagement. I appreciate her recent enthusiasm but it’s hard to overlook that this party is taking place eighteen months after we got engaged and, quite literally, over my father’s dead body.” 

Theo’s mouth twists but he doesn’t say anything, and then after a moment it dawns on Andy that he knows exactly how and why Theo came back to New York. 

“Theo, I’m so sorry about your father.” 

Theo blinks at him. “Oh. You. He told you about that?” 

Andy nods, “Among other things.” 

“Christ, I need a drink.” 

“Sure, I’ll get you a water,” Andy says flatly and Theo looks at him with fond annoyance. 

“Don’t be an asshole. 

“I’ve just heard a lot of stories about Boris and Potter’s adventures, and many of them start with you getting drunk.” 

“Christ,” Theo says again. “How many stories?” 

“Enough. A lot. He talks about you frequently.” 

“That sounds kind of annoying,” Theo says, incredibly pleased. 

“Oh rest assured, it is,” Andy says, and Theo laughs, breaking up the frost of their earlier conversation. “But I’m not— please don’t think my reaction was some sort of. I don’t know, jealous vexation or judgment of you. You just weren’t what I pictured whenever Boris went on one of his Potter tangents.” 

“That’s fair,” Theo says, fingers flexing against the bar. 

“I’m not actually going to stop you from ordering a drink,” Andy says, “If you want to.” 

“I think I’m alright,” Theo says. 

Andy studies him in profile for a moment, trying to make it line up with the outline of Potter he’d formed in his mind, and while it still doesn’t quite fit, he can see better now where they might overlap a little. 

“I’m sorry everything was so fucked up,” Andy says bluntly. “You didn’t deserve that. Any of it.”

Theo looks at him a little lost, a little unfocused, like he’s not really here mentally with Andy at all. He used to do that a lot when they were children, _off to the Met_ , Andy used to call it in the private confines of his head. But he’s not sure where Theo is now, maybe out in the desert, that abandoned suburb like the set of a horror film. 

“It was just,” Andy says, licking his lips. “It was already so hard to hear a lot of those stories. I mean, Christ, I don’t have to tell you how miserable Boris’s childhood was. I just, it was already—before I knew that _two_ different people I love went through that.” 

“Oh,” Theo says, and exhales shakily, neither of them saying anything for a long few moments. 

“I guess,” Andy says, when it becomes clear that Theo’s not going to say anything (and maybe that he’d prefer to be alone with his thoughts), “I should probably go attempt to make a good show of appearances, given that this is supposed to be my party.” 

“Good luck,” Theo says. 

“Oh don’t worry, I’m bringing Boris with me for protection,” Andy says, looking around for him and spotting him off in a far corner with, presumably, this Havistock fellow that Kitsey mentioned. 

“That’s Havistock Irving,” Theo’s voice goes all strained. 

“Oh is it?” Andy asks, “I don’t really know him. Probably one of my mother’s friends.” 

“Yeah he’s, um, well I’d call him a knocker but that’s— he’s basically just a con artist. He steals antiques, mostly from older women, widowers. He’s— his friend Lucius Reeve was— last year— sorry it’s complicated. The point is he’s bad news.” 

“Well I’m sure Boris has it under control,” Andy says, patting Theo on the arm, even as he looks unconvinced. Which is a little surprising, because while Andy’s not clear on the specifics of how much Theo knows about what Boris has been up to since Vegas, Andy _does_ know through all this Potter nonsense that Theo was in the mix last December. That whole situation had been a giant headache, and not just because Andy’s mother had worked herself into a tizzy over Boris not being in town for Christmas (“I thought he was Jewish, so it’s not even a big deal is it?” Kitsey asked, curled up with eggnog that was mostly brandy, “He’s got that tattoo”). 

Though, for all Andy knows (which is very little), maybe whatever happened in Amsterdam was less of a reassurance that Boris could handle himself that he expected. Still he doesn’t push the issue further before bracing himself to, horror of horrors, mingle. 

Andy expected Theo to have slipped oling the same half-true story of how he and Boris had met (same time, same place, different details) on repeat for well over an hour. But instead Andy finds Theo waiting over by the door as things are wrapping up, coat draped over one arm, nodding halfheartedly to something Toddy is saying to him. 

“Did he invite you to lunch with his girlfriend?” Andy asks after Toddy has retreated with their mother into a town car. 

“Worse, brunch,” Theo says, with sincere disdain, and despite everything Andy has unwillingly learned today, he truly may never understand him. 

Theo insists he can walk back to his place, but Gyuri jumps out of the car and flags him down enthusiastically, so Theo agrees. Boris rides in the front seat with Gyuri, half turned around so he can direct quick dense Russian at Theo. All Andy makes out is a few swear words and ‘Amsterdam,’ but the three of them are laughing like gossipy middle schoolers on the subway so he’s not worried. 

“Andy?” Theo asks, like he’s repeating something for his attention and Andy looks up from where he was checking his email. The trade off to no photographers at the party was, apparently, his mother emailing him the portfolios of every single wedding photographer on the isle of Manhattan. 

“Yes, sorry?” Andy says, tucking his phone under his leg like he used to at the dinner table when he was thirteen. 

“Don’t you agree?” 

“Don’t I agree about what?” 

“Oh, you don’t—” Theo blinks, “You don’t speak Russian?” 

“A little. Basic phrases,” Andy says, “but mostly things I probably shouldn’t say in polite company.” 

“What, we are polite company?” Boris says, reaching back to squeeze Andy’s knee. 

“Boris never taught you?” Theo says slowly, “I’m just— he practically forced me to learn, that’s all.” 

“Liar! Andrey don’t listen to a word out of his mouth, he was always bugging me to know what I was saying, twisted my arm practically. And then you went and took all those _classes_.” 

“I do speak German though,” Andy says quickly, “French, Japanese, all fluently. My Dutch is fine and my Icelandic is pretty basic but it’s better than Boris’s.” 

“Icelandic?” 

“Good place to meet in the middle,” Boris offers by way of explanation, “We’ll take you sometime.” 

“But not Russian? Or Ukranian?” Theo says and Andy’s defensiveness is quickly melting into annoyance. 

“No.” 

“He’s got me Potter,” Boris says, placatingly. “What does he need to know Russian for?” 

“I— alright,” Theo says, and drops it, Gyuri launching into a new tangent enthusiastically, Andy glad for the excuse to not say much of anything for the rest of the drive. 

“You’re angry,” Boris says when they’re back at the apartment, Andy sitting in bed while Boris wanders out of the bathroom, toothbrush tucked in the corner of his mouth. 

“Do you _want_ me to learn Russian? I could,” Andy says exasperatedly.

“I know you could,” Boris says. “But better to spend the time learning something I don’t speak, don't you think? Italian maybe?” He’s wearing a pair of Andy’s ratty old MIT sweatpants, looking almost unsettlingly like a normal person, and when Andy doesn’t say anything he disappears back into the bathroom for a few minutes. 

“Hey,” Boris says, crawling into bed and reaching for Andy’s face. “I had a lot less secrets back then.” 

“So?” Andy prompts. 

“So, don’t be jealous, I didn’t teach him because I _like_ him better than you, it was just different. Also his Russian is. It’s fine. Nothing to write home about.”

“No, I— I know that I just—” It was hard to put in a way that didn’t sound vexingly childish. He wasn’t annoyed that Theo knew Russian and he didn’t, or even that Boris taught him, he was annoyed that Theo seemed to think that was a problem. 

“Is it,” Boris says cautiously, pulling his hand away from Andy’s face, “is it because we had sex?” 

Andy blinks, opens his mouth, blinks again, feeling exactly like he’s standing on the subway platform waiting for his train. Only instead of a train coming barrelling into the station it’s the inalienable fact that during their Lost Boys years of running around the desert and almost self-imploding in the face of horrific neglect and abuse, Boris and Theo fucked. 

Like. 

Multiple times. 

“Andreika?” Boris says carefully, which, Andy must really look like shit if he’s breaking out the big guns. 

“Oh my god?” Andy finally manages to wheeze out because what the mother fuck else is he supposed to do with that information? “Oh my _god_ what was that even _like_!?” 

Boris looks at him, still cautious, “Is this a trick question?” 

“I—” is all Andy manages out before his body and brain gang up on him for sabotage and he’s tilting over into the mattress laughing so hard that it quickly turns into a cough fit before circling back, Boris watching him hands poised like a volleyball player waiting for the ball. 

“You okay?” he says finally when Andy starts to wind down a little, wiping honest to god tears from his eyes. 

“Oh yeah, my fiance fucked my childhood crush, I’m fantastic,” Andy says, and he mostly means it. The horrible shock of revelation, put firmly in it’s palace by the sheer cosmic _absurdity_ of it. 

“It was a very different time for both of us, and obviously I did not know you then…” Boris says slowly, and him feeling the need to confirm to Andy it wasn’t (somehow?) cheating is really not helping the hysteria of the situation. 

“Stop talking and come _here_ ,” Andy says and those must be the magic words because suddenly Boris is over top of him, hands braced on the mattress right above Andy’s shoulders. 

“So you are _not_ mad?” Boris says, still looking a little confused, which is frankly kind of refreshing after taking the Theo-Potter situation in stride. It feels right that the tables have turned. 

“No, I’m not mad,” Andy says, sliding his hands up to Boris’s shoulders. “But hey, I mean if you want to make it up to me, maybe I should have sex with Theo just to close the loop and—” 

Suddenly Boris’s face is a lot closer to his own, and Andy finds his hands pinned to the mattress above his head, “Trust me Andrey,” Boris says, “This will not be necessary.” 

“Well if you insist,” Andy says, hooking a leg around Boris’s waist. It was an important skill, knowing when to defer to an expert with lived experience. 

Boris is up before him, pressing his mouth into the spot just below Andy’s ear and saying something about going to walk the dog with Theo, which Andy only remembers despite his semi-conscious state because he’s already dreading the conversation that’s sure to follow. (“Andrey how can you say no to a face like that,” Boris will say, laptop open to some website displaying a multitude of incredibly adorable hypoallergenic dogs, unclear which face exactly he’s saying no to.) 

Still, despite everything, Andy can’t deny that Boris having another tether to the city is comforting. Another reason to come back even if he’s still working mostly in Europe right now. Before his father had died Andy had been ready to leave at a moment’s notice, but things were different now, and it was reassuring to feel like Theo walking back into their lives was one more good reason to stay. 

Even if Theo and Boris had had sex (which Andy, frankly, still has a lot of questions about). 

He’s just dashing off an email to a possible wedding officiant, trying to convince himself that his at-home cold brew coffee was perfectly fine and he doesn’t need to go do a Starbucks run when the intercom buzzes. 

“Did you forget your keys?” Andy says into the speaker. 

“What?” Theo’s tinny voice replies. 

“Oh, hi Theo. Sorry I thought you were Boris. Let me buzz you up. Just come straight up the stairs and that’s us,” Andy says, leaning over to unlock the front door and then, feeling an impulse that he attributes directly to his mother, hurrying over to straight up the things on his coffee table. 

Theo knocks gently and then tries the door, “Hi, sorry to bother you at home.” 

Andy gestures around the apartment, “I wasn’t doing anything. Do you want anything? Coffee? Tea?” 

“No, no, that’s alright,” Theo says. “Boris isn’t here, right?” 

“Not presently, he had,” Andy waves a hand. “Meeting? Lunch? Who knows.” 

“Right, right,” Theo nods, eyes scanning across the apartment, which took up the second floor of a very lovely townhouse which Andy had inherited from a friend of his mother’s. Though Theo seemed a little preoccupied with making half-concealed judgmental looks at Andy’s IKEA furniture and the rows of candy coloured manga and art books on his shelves. 

“Great bones,” Theo offers, more or less confirming Andy’s suspicions. 

“That I am destroying with my horrible tastes?” 

“I didn’t say that,” Theo says, with a guilty set to his shoulders. 

Andy laughs, “No it’s fine. Do you want to sit?” 

Theo rubs his hands together but does finally settle into an armchair, hands skating down his thighs anxiously. 

“Are you alright?” Andy asks, sitting on the couch. 

“I, um, there’s just something I need to talk to you about.” 

“There’s actually something I wanted to ask you about too,” Andy says, “I was going to call you this afternoon actually, but if you’re here…” 

“Oh?” 

“No you go ahead,” Andy says. “Mine can wait.” 

“No, I insist.”

“Well alright,” Andy starts. “So, I apologize in advance that I can’t actually give you a lot of details about what I’m going to ask you to do, because trying to pin Boris down to a date is like boiling the ocean. But. I was wondering— well on behalf of us both — we were wondering if you would consider being our witness for the wedding? We’re obviously planning on having a handful of people there, but in terms of being the official on-paper signatory witness, it would mean a lot to both of us if it were you.” 

“Uh?” Theo says, eyebrows jumping and twisting. “That’s. I was really not expecting you to ask me that right now.” 

“I didn’t mean to put you on the spot, take all the time you need to think about it. I know it’s— that I wasn’t,” Andy swallows. “I know I wasn’t my best last night and that wasn’t fair to you, and as much as if I think about it too long I will either start laughing or crying, I think Boris was. Well I think he was right.” 

“Right about what?” 

“I think maybe all of this is fate,” Andy says simply. “And the more I think about it the more it feels like maybe it’s not just correlation, maybe it’s causation.” 

Theo picks at the leg of his trousers, “I don’t— I don’t follow your meaning.” 

Andy touches his glasses nervously, “I’m not a. I don’t subscribe to a lot of those kinds of — you know crystals and astrology and that.” 

“Yes Andy, I know,” Theo says, like he’s trying not to smile. 

“But I can’t help but think that maybe it’s not so much that Boris and I met and were attracted to each other and then through a sheer random coincidence had that you were one of the most important people in our lives—” 

“Well I wouldn’t say that—” 

“—I would. Boris would. And I think maybe Boris and I found each other because we could, I don’t know how to describe it. Because we both had all this love for that same person and we could see that in each other in some deep innate way that isn’t quantifiable it just...it just _is_. And it’s how we knew, as impossible as the two of us seem on paper, that maybe we could love each other too.” 

It sits there in the air for a moment, and Theo doesn’t say anything so Andy doesn’t say anything either for a good long few moments. “Do you think I’m crazy?” 

Theo’s brows rearrange themselves, “No, of course I don’t. I don’t think you’re crazy. Trust me, I understand looking for the signs and the symbols and— it’s a good thought. It’s a really nice thought.” 

“So you’ll think about it?” Andy says cautiously. “Being our witness.” 

“No, I don’t need to think about it, of course I’ll do it. Of course.” 

“Oh,” Andy says, “Well that’s lovely,” and then Theo is snort laughing at him. 

“What?” he asks indignantly. 

“Nothing you’re just, you’re so _you_ Andy, Christ. My mom would be— she would be so happy for you. She always adored you. She really did. I wonder all the time what she would have made of Boris,” Theo says musingly, while Andy debates if he can get up and hug Theo or if that will just make things weird. “Look, I...I actually need to call him and straighten some things up, so would you maybe do me a favour and—” 

Andy doesn’t hear what the favour is because at that moment the front door to the apartment bangs open and Boris is standing there looking irate, Myriam at his heels. 

“ _You!_ ” he says, jabbing an accusing finger at Theo, and then turning to Andy, “what did he tell you?” 

“Pardon?” 

“Boris,” Theo interjects, “I didn’t, I didn’t tell him anything.” 

“What’s happening?” Andy says to no avail because Boris is already whipped up into a melodramatic frenzy, glaring at Theo. 

“What did you say to him!? You come into _my home_ and you endanger _my_ Andrey, the blood of my heart!” 

“Myriam,” Andy says, because there’s no getting through to Boris when he’s like this and Andy knows from experience it’s easier to just let him tire himself out. “Hi, can I get you anything? Coffee? I have that dark roast you like.” 

“I am fine, thank you Andrey,” Myriam says pleasantly, perching up against the wall, equally accustomed to Boris’s melodrama. 

“How can you be offering drinks in a time like this?!” Boris exclaims, betrayed. 

“Well given that I don’t know what kind of time is, I thought I could at least be polite. Can we please sit down and talk like civilized people?” 

Boris shoots another huffy glare at Theo but settles himself on the arm of the couch, arms crossed. “What did you tell him?” 

“Boris I didn’t tell him anything, I swear— I was, I was going to and then we got talking about— some other things,” Theo says cautiously, which is probably a good idea, Andy still wants him to be their witness, but there are some things better not said in front of an irate Boris. “I didn’t say anything. But for the record I still think _you_ should tell him.” 

“I already _explained_ to you, what I need to repeat myself a dozen times?” 

“Borya,” Myriam says, and then something in Ukranian which Andy can gather from context is something along the lines of _do I really need to be here for this?_

“Fine, wait in the car!” Boris says, muttering something else under his breath so low that Andy can’t even identify the language. 

“Goodbye Andrey, nice to see you as always.” 

“You too,” Andy says as Myriam slinks out of the apartment, shutting the door very gently behind her. 

“Wait so she likes _Andy_ but not me?” Theo says, “That’s not fair.” 

“You already have Gyuri in your corner, let me have this,” Andy counters. 

Boris huffs. “Do not change the subject, we are talking about you _betraying_ me after I explained to you up and down all morning why it was best for Andrey not to know the details. You agreed!” 

“Is this about you two hooking up?” Andy says, adjusting his glasses. “Because seriously Theo I don’t need a play by play, I’m happy living in semi-ignorant bliss.” 

Theo turns an alarming shade of red and starts spluttering like a leaky faucet, “No— I— _you told him about that_!?” He wheezes at Boris. 

He shrugs, “Hmmm, seems like you aren’t liking it when the shoe is on the other foot.” 

Andy can feel a headache coming on, and all of the universe affirming goodwill he’d had towards this situation is starting to slip. “Can someone please just explain to me what is going on?”

“Oh I can do better than that,” Boris says, pulling out his phone. 

“Don’t— Boris, c’mon,” Theo says but Boris shushes him. 

_“Hey, look,”_ Theo’s voice says on the slightly echoed voicemail recording, _“I know I said that I— I understood why you didn’t want to tell Andy about Amsterdam but I’ve been thinking and. I just. Andy’s my friend too and I can’t let him— I need him to know what he’s getting into. So I’m going to tell him myself. I’m sorry, but I have to do this.”_

Theo won’t meet his gaze, which is maybe a good thing because Andy feels himself go hot all over. It may have been thirteen years and several boyfriends since the glory days of his crush on Theo Decker, but some things never truly go away. Especially in the face of displays of ill-guided protectiveness. 

“You see!” Boris says. “You see what danger he almost put you in!” 

“ _I_ almost put him in!?” Theo says, standing suddenly, “I’m not the one who lied to him about why I missed Christmas last year. Andy you have to know that he’s not on— going on _business trips_.” 

“They are a kind of business trip!” Boris says, now on his feet too, voice rising. 

“Wait, wait, both of you stop talking right now,” Andy snaps, mind scrambling quickly behind the conversation, trying to catch hold of a balloon before it drifts up into the atmosphere. 

“But—!” 

“Boris, stop talking,” Andy says, and turns to Theo. “Let me just clarify something here. Theo, do you think that _I_ think Boris _actually_ worksin estate management?” 

“I— uh—” Theo grimaces. “Maybe?” 

“Do I really seem that stupid?” Andy asks. “Please don’t answer that. No, of course I know he’s not— Theo we’ve been together for four years, how would I not _know_ at this point?” 

“Well,” Theo says, turning red, “he said you didn’t know about Amsterdam! That doesn’t— I had concerns!” 

“He does not know about Amsterdam because he does not need to know about Amsterdam!” Boris says, voice rising again. “This is what I told you earlier! Better protection for Andrey, better for me, better for _you_ Potter. What happens if he knows all these things, hmmm? Interpol, federal agents. A lot of questions. What happens if—” 

“When,” Andy offers. 

“ _If_ someone comes knocking wanting to know, ‘oh Mr Barbour has your husband ever mentioned this man? That man? This place? That job?’ He cannot help them connect dots because he doesn’t know any of the dots. It was his idea.” 

“It was my idea,” Andy confirms. “I watch a lot of crime dramas. They always go after the criminal’s wife.” 

“Not a criminal,” Boris sniffs. 

“Not your wife dear, the point still stands,” Andy counters, and then looks at Theo. “I’m not half as naive as I look. Just because I didn’t have your life doesn’t mean I don’t know things. I mean Christ, Daddy was walking around having untreated manic episodes, mother’s taking sleeping pills like candy, Kitsey’s off running with Tom Cable, I don’t even want to think about what Platt does in his spare time. And that’s not even getting into the extended family, the stories I could tell about my Aunt Katherine and Daddy’s cousin Francis. The Barbours are not unsullied from these things, we just hide them better.” 

“It’s true, Potter,” Boris says, touching Andy on the cheek affectionately. “You should see the connections Andrey’s father had. Blue bloods still bleed.” 

Andy expects Theo to perhaps look somewhat relieved, but he’s got his whole body bent over practically between his knees. “Still though it’s— I’m very touched that you would try and protect me like, however misguided it was.” 

“I’m not,” Boris grumbles, settling back on the arm of the couch. 

“Well tough,” Andy says, “he’s my best friend too.” 

Theo’s head comes up a little on that. “I am?” 

“Well yes, obviously Theo,” Andy says, because it _should_ be obvious at this point. “And I appreciate you wanting to save me from marrying a dangerous man in ignorance.” 

“I am technically a very dangerous man, _myszko_ ,” Boris says. 

“Yes, yes, you’re a bad bad man who I have to remind to put his nighttime retainer on, it dampens the thrill a little Boris.” 

Theo rubs a hand over his face. “It’s just a lot to take in. I mean you’re so— you’re so _Andy_. But then again,” he waves a hand back and forth idly, “Maybe that’s not so surprising after all. Who knows anymore.” 

“Here, let me make you some tea,” Andy says, one of the only traits he’d picked up from his father was the urge to foist strong tea off onto the suffering of others.

“Wait, so, okay,” Theo says, “you really don’t know _anything_ that happened in Amsterdam?” 

“Not really. I know about,” Andy touches the side of his arm demonstratively, before clicking down the electric kettle. “Boris got that nasty little graze, and something, something art recovery reward money. That’s about it.” 

“And it doesn’t— I mean it doesn’t bother you knowing I was there. I mean god Andy, if you knew what I did—” 

“I don’t care,” Andy says, cutting him off. “I know you. I trust you. I don’t need to know.” 

“Really?” 

“Of course.” 

Theo exhales, tongue pushing against his teeth as Andy pours his tea, darting a glance at Boris, “You were right. He does surprise you.” 

“Yes he does,” Boris says, arms folded again, eyes very soft. 

“Besides,” Andy says, bringing Theo his tea. “I’m sure you had very good reasons for getting into counterfeiting that I do not need to hear about.” 

“Counterfeiting?” 

“Mhmm, Boris told me.” 

“That’s not, that’s— why did you describe it like that!?” Theo says to Boris, betrayed. 

“It _is_ counterfeiting.” 

“That sounds like I was printing fake money, it wasn’t, Andy I was just. It was only antiques, and I wasn’t even the one _making_ them.” 

“You really don’t have to tell me this,” Andy says, sitting back on the couch, Boris quickly settling himself on top of Andy in that way he has; _oh is not about being closer to you this is just a nice place to sit_. “I wasn’t judging, I mean god knows I can’t after my whole Yakuza translator stint.” 

Theo splutters. “Your _what_.” 

“Oh did we not tell you how we met?” Andy says, airily as the very nice heirloom china teacup Theo was holding goes clattering down onto his semi-nice IKEA rug. 

Maybe he should have saved that story for _after_ the bachelor party.

**Author's Note:**

> A huge thank you to youshallnotfinditso and Ashwinder for the fantastic beta job, with an extra thank you to the former for incepting me with the god tier nonsense that is Andy/Boris back in 2016. You can find me on tumblr where I'm also phonecallfromgod.


End file.
